Nobody Wants A Retlin Boy
by car crash club
Summary: One boy. Five girls. Fifteen dates. Psychology experiments never seemed so promising.


A/N: I've always had a thing for Cary, so I figured I'd try my hand at writing him. This'll only probably be a handful of chapters. Just a fun sideproject for me. :

* * *

Well, baby brother, it has been a riveting fourteen years spent with you. I remember way back in the day when Mom and Dad brought you home from the hospital. It was love at first sight, kid, and I knew right from the start that we'd be best friends.

Okay, who am I kidding? One, I was two-years-old when they brought you home. Two, my earliest memory of you is pulling you off of the couch and biting your hand so badly that it bled. Three, the purpose of this notebook is not to cover something you are going to be glad to hear about. Oh no, what I have to share with you here is going to cause you to cry, punch a wall, and want to bite my hand to the point of drawing blood. But just a little FYI for you -- none of this is my fault.

Alright, alright. The majority of it is my fault. But there are parts that aren't. Like genetics. Preposterous that our gorgeous genetics might betray us, I know. We are glorious men, aren't we? Of course, I'd say my caramel-colored hair is a lot more attractive than your chestnut locks . . . but now I sound very gay, which I most definitely am not.

. . . Why do I keep lying here?

Not that I'm gay, dear brother. I'm pretty far from swinging in that direction. I do have my fair share of secrets though, and sometimes high school parties can get a little . . . shall we say, _freaky_?

Should I back up? Do you want me to explain everything clearly? I'd assume so, but since when do I ever do that? I like riddles. Puzzles. Mind games. I respect that your mind isn't quite as strong as mine, but don't sweat it! Hardly anyone can match me in wit! (I deserve my own TV show. The Can You Defeat Cary R? show. It'd be a hit.)

Let's go back to genetics. I _do _have a very attractive shade of hair, and yes, it _is _shaggy in that perfect way. My eyes _are _a gorgeous mix of greenish-brown, and (though I've never tried) my cheekbones are sharp enough to cut diamonds. Face it, kid. Your brother's a babe. You're not half bad yourself, though, so chin up! What I'm getting at is this: we were blessed with marginally attractive parents.

However, this notebook is not for me to discuss my hotness (though I suppose I could write a lengthy novel on my _perfectly _formulated abs), and it's definitely not to discuss our parents. No, I have one thing to prove to you within the pages of this notebook. This is an experiment. A risky experiment on my part, but one that will prove very useful for you, and later on in life, our youngest brother.

**My thesis:** Girls do not want a Retlin boy.

**My proof: **A handful of women who reside in the Stoneybrook, Connecticut area.

**My Experiment: **What is so repulsing about a Retlin male?

I know I'm making it sound like I get no action. This is not true. I'm not one to boast about myself, but I must say . . . I am a stud. I was doubtful about the whole high school experience at first. It seemed very confining, and I hate being confined. As you know, I joined the soccer team on a bet. Actually, you probably didn't know that. Let me back up.

Kristy Thomas. Leader of the Baby Club, self-righteous know-it-all witch. She had the nerve to tell me that I have no sense of commitment. At the time, the only sport that was going on was soccer. Little did she know what she would create if she dared me to try out. Long story short? I got twenty bucks from the lovely Kristin, I became a hotshot soccer star, and she felt defeated in several areas. She probably didn't sleep for days. I bet she has nightmares about soccer now.

I'm fairly popular. I'm not top on the chart, but I'm around there. People know me. I'm sort of the sardonic, dry-humored one . . . but still, I'm there. Plenty of girls find me attractive. However, nothing serious ever happens, which led me to this experiment. What exactly is it about me that tells girls that I am not boyfriend material?

My sophomore year started two and a half weeks ago. My psychology teacher told us that we all had to observe a character and write an experimental document about them. I chose me. Or more accurately, I chose the Retlin Boys. (Because it can't just be _me _who repels the ladies -- it must be all of us!) This test will involve myself and five girls. The girls have been picked by me. Each one is significantly different from the other. I will attempt to go on three dates with each lady.

An experiment like this will either make me famous or dead. Or both. Girls are mean.

Benson, you are due to turn fourteen in a number of months. You are enrolled at Stoneybrook Middle School. (Fair warning -- time practically stops in that building.) In one year, you will be in high school. This experiment is to prevent you from making the same mistakes that I have made, young grasshopper. Once you get your full use out of it, remember to pass it on to Steig -- this generation of Retlins need to be prepared and ready for the hate of women.

Just remember, kid, this experiment has no guarantees. When all is said and done, one thing will still be true -- nobody wants a Retlin boy.


End file.
